


Yo Ho, a Pirate's Life for Me

by froggy (therealfroggy), Niektete (therealfroggy)



Series: Pirate Trilogy [1]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Prison Break
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/froggy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/Niektete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Scofield finds himself somewhere unexpected: namely, in the Caribbean. In a strange place called Tortuga. And there are pirates there. <i>Pirates</i>, for the love of pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yo Ho, a Pirate's Life for Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a request (sorry, can't at the moment remember who requested it): Michael Scofield/Jack Sparrow. That's all that was specified. And I hope that's what I delivered. Written quite a few years ago, but here it is, anyway.

_Okay so this is weird._

Ships. Weirdly dressed people. Coils of rope and wooden barrels lying around. Where the hell was he?

_It's okay, Michael. You're dreaming, that's all._ But the smell of salt water was too real to be a dream, and someone pushed past him, that someone being too solid to be a dream.

“Excuse me,” Michael called, running after the guy who had just walked past him. “Could you tell me where I am?”

The man turned around, swaying slightly. He wore a knee-length brownish coat, flared from the waist down, and tall boots turned down just beneath his knees. Michael could only gape in fascination at the large, triangular hat finishing the outfit.

“Sorry mate, didn't catch that?” the man said, his eyes slightly out of focus. _Is he wearing eye liner?_ Michael could smell the alcohol on the man's breath and assumed he was drunk.

“I was wondering where we are,” Michael repeated, looking warily at the clown in the God-knew-which-century outfit.

“Tortuga,” the hat guy replied, looking at Michael as if he was the one dressed for a costume party. “You must be even drunker than me, mate, if you have to ask.” A slight pause, a few more suspicious glances.

Suddenly a flicker of something Michael didn't like, flashed across the hat guy's eyes. “You're one of those girlies dressing up to get to sail those pretty, big boats, aren't you. Who brought you to Tortuga, then, darlin'?”

Michael stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“Good disguise, darlin', but you're simply too pretty to pass for a man,” the hat guy continued, suddenly starting to circle Michael.

“Hey, I'm a guy,” Michael said defensively. This guy was obviously deluded. “And besides, _I'm_ not the one wearing eye liner. And boots with heels!” he added accusingly, trying to avoid bumping into the swaggering man.

The hat guy stopped, then stared at him, squinting. “You're a guy?” he repeated, eyes swimming over Michael's face. “Not with those lips, darlin'; not in a million years. Now where did you get that funny costume?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Says the guy in the _Captain Hook_ outfit.”

Hat guy gave a start. “Hook? Now why don't I know his name, darlin'? I know every captain this side of the Caribbean. Is he one of those blue coats?”

“We're somewhere in the Caribbean, then,” Michael said, frowning. “What I'd really like to know is, how the hell did I get here.”

Hat guy regarded him again, then shrugged. “I was going for a drink. Care to join me, darlin'? We can figure out how you got here; ask if anyone's missing a cabin boy.”

Michael was beginning to feel exasperated. “Stop calling me ´darling`.”

Hat guy gave a bow, then extended a hand. “Captain Jack Sparrow at your service. Now how about that drink?”

And as Michael didn't really have any other options, he followed Hat guy up a wide dirt road from the harbour toward what seemed to be a settlement of some sort.

*

“For the fisht time, I'm a guy,” Michael slurred, feeling slightly light-headed. He'd never had rum before, but in his current state of distress, he'd drink just about anything.

“Sure you are, darlin',” Jack – Michael had started calling him Jack after the third drink – grinned. “You can tell by your drinking.”

“Okay, sho I'm gay and ushually I have vodka orangesh,” Michael admitted, waving his tin mug around, sloshing rum over the table. “But I'm still male!”

“Well, aren't we all,” Jack said, raising his glass in a toast. “You have somewhere to sleep tonight, then?”

Michael thought for a moment. He did. An apartment in Chicago. But then he'd have to catch a flight out of there, and that'd take forever, wouldn't it? _Better just go home with'm and sleep it off. Plus, he's kind of hot, once you get past the... the Captain Hook-thing._

“Nope,” he said, taking another swig of the rum and coughing. “Are you inviting me home?”

“But of course,” Jack said, still with that smirking grin. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't?”

Someone at the next table snorted, as if in laughter, but Jack didn't seem to hear and Michael didn't really care.

“'Sh long ash you're comft... cumfert... comfortable,” Michael managed, “comfortable having a man shpending th'night.”

With Jack's arm for a support, Michael managed to rise from the table, stumble through the streets of the settlement, and finally reach the docks again. Jack almost had to carry him across the narrow boarding plank across the gap to the ship's railing; he was swerving badly.

“Mind the cow, darlin'” Jack commented, leading him around the open hatch in the middle of the deck. “The men want to eat, you know.”

A desolate "Moo" drifted up from the hatch. Michael didn't figure why they didn't just ship that thing by truck or something, like other livestock. But he was too inebriated to care, and besides, he was beginning to notice the nice feeling of Jack's body warm against his in the mild summer night.

“Are you gay?” Michael slurred, trying to pay attention to which way Jack was taking him. He was failing spectacularly.

Jack cast a strange look at him. “Only when I'm drinking,” he laughed. Michael gave an answering grin. _Jack'sh been drinking all night. Hah._

“There we go, darlin',” Jack said, showing Michael into a bedroom of sorts. There was a wide, comfy-looking bunk along one of the walls, and a desk and chair along another. A huge wooden chest stood against the wall next to the door. “Let me help you off with that...”

Michael tried to help as Jack removed his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt, but his fingers weren't cooperative enough. “What d'you do, Jack? I mean, for a living.”

“I'm a pirate, love,” Jack replied, “like most...”

He stopped short. Having opened Michael's shirt, the pirate ( _I always thought pirates were kind of hot_ ) stared at the pale skin before him, the beginnings of intricate tattoos which would soon fill Michael's entire torso darkening the pectorals and shoulder areas.

“You're a man,” he said.

Michael rolled his eyes despite his drunken state. “No shit, Sherlock? I told you like a million timesh already. 'Shides, you shaid you were gay.”

“Well what does that have to do with anything?” Jack said, frowning in a very drunken-looking manner. Michael decided it was even hotter than when he didn't.

“Being gay. You know, liking men. You shaid you like men only when you drink,” he said, trying to untangle himself from the now open shirt.

“That's codswallop, mate,” the pirate protested, “I don't.”

Michael frowned, confused. Didn't like men or didn't like them only when he was drunk?

“You must be speaking another language, darlin',” Jack said, his voice dipping to the smoothness it had before the whole gay-discussion began. “If I'm in a good mood or not when I'm drinking, has nothing to do with what I like. Now with a man as pretty as you... let's just say I'd be willing to keep an open mind.”

Michael grinned. “Hah. You are gay.”

Jack the pirate ( _I really like the sound of that_ ) left off discussion for the night and completed his task of removing Michael's shirt. Then he shoved him over to the bunk. “I'm sure you're just as good with those lips as a Tortugan gal is,” he commented.

Michael rolled his eyes. “That'sh unfair. You invite me home after drinksh and you're not even gonna fu... have real shex with me? I can be bottom, if you're... if you're jusht a drunk-fag,” Michael added with a giggle.

The pirate raised his eyebrows, a slight tug on his upper lip giving him just the right sneer for Michael to get even more turned on. “Darlin', not only are you too drunk to talk properly, but you must be from Jamaica or something, 'cause I can't understand a word you're saying.”

“I'll show you, then,” Michael laughed, reaching for Jack's hat. Simply dropping the hat to the floor, Michael moved on to the pirate's coat, trying to get it off but failing. “Jusht get undreshed, and I'll show you.”

Jack brought a finger to his lip as if in thought. “That sounds like a mighty interesting offer, darlin'. But how do I know there's nothing fishy about it?”

“Too drunk,” Michael pointed out, losing his patience and starting to rip at Jack's buttons. “I can shleep tied to the bed or shomething.”

Jack gave a shrug. “Don't see why not.”

Michael's mind was steadily becoming lighter and blurrier. Soon, he found himself giggling on the bunk, naked as the day he was born, with a semi-dressed Jack the pirate looking interestedly down at him. Then the bearded man joined him on the bed, and somehow got rid of his trousers and shirt.

“You don't wear underwear,” Michael commented, noticing that Jack was suddenly as naked as he was, save his heeled boots. “And you're shtill wearing your bootsh.”

“Never sleep without 'em,” Jack replied, looking Michael over with obvious interest. “You never know when you might have to run, darlin'.”

Michael silently thought that he would kill the pirate if he ran now, but sudden hands fluttering over his skin quelled that worry. Hands were exploring, investigating as if they'd never touched a man's body before (and Michael thought that maybe they hadn't), and Michael laid back to enjoy.

“Where did you get these tattoos, then, darlin'?” Jack asked, stroking wondering hands down Michael's chest.

“Shicago,” Michael purred, loving the feeling of the calloused hands on his skin. “Jusht thish little tattoo shop off...” Off where? He couldn't quite remember; the rum and Jack's fascinated explorations kept his mind busy enough.

Jack gave him a grin which clearly said he didn't care. “Time to show me why you're preferable to a Tortugan girl, then,” the pirate smirked, leaning on one elbow. Michael gave him an answering smile and rolled them over so that Jack was on his back underneath him. Some things even royal amounts of alcohol could not erase from his mind.

Ignoring foreplay in favour of finding out what, exactly, the pirate hid under his non-existent underwear, Michael straddled Jack's legs, then backed down until he could take the other man's erection into his mouth in one swift move.

“Darlin'!” Jack exclaimed, bucking a little under the eager mouth. “You really are better; this – oh!”

Michael hummed contentedly around him, and Jack moaned loudly. Before long, however, Michael released the panting pirate from his mouth and crawled back up to his face.

“Jusht getting shtarted,” Michael ensured Jack before he could open his mouth in protest. Then he raised himself to his knees, looking down at the pirate's lean body. Toned, muscular. Michael licked his lips, then closed a hand around the base of Jack's cock, holding him steady.

“You're not... What, exactly –”

Jack's hesitant voice died in a sharp intake of breath as Michael started lowering himself on the pirate's hard length, biting his bottom lip to stop himself from tensing up. Jack's head fell back onto the pillows as Michael's body drew him in, clenching around every inch.

“You've never fucked a man before,” Michael mused out loud, head swimming more with the feeling of Jack hard inside him than it had with the rum. “I'm your firsht, then.”

Jack opened his mouth, apparently to speak, but just then Michael began moving, and the only thing that left Jack's lips was a deep moan. Placing one hand to support himself on the wall above Jack's head, Michael rocked his hips teasingly slow, circling the other man's nipple with his index finger.

“Can't believe you haven't tried thish before,” he panted, most of his energy going into moving up and down the pirate's erection. “Sho... fucking good!”

“Ah, darlin',” Jack groaned, holding Michael's hip with both hands. “Had no idea a man could do all this!”

Michael wanted to reply, but just then one of them shifted somehow, and suddenly Jack was thrusting hard against Michael's prostate. Michael let out a scream of pleasure and angled his hips back, trying to make the pirate go deeper.

“Jack,” he moaned, bucking, “I... more, please, just – oh holy shit, just like that!” Not once did it occur to Michael that sex cleaned up his inebriated language skills. He just kept moaning and ranting for more, even as Jack hit that electric spot which made him see stars every time.

Michael fisted himself, stroking in time with the pirate's thrusts. He leaned back on his hand, back arching to let Jack see every inch of tattooed skin as he rocked and stroked and – _Oh holy shit here we go_ as Jack grasped his hip roughly with one elegant hand. Michael came, breath and voice dying in his throat as Jack thrust deep.

“Oh,” Jack all but groaned when Michael clenched around him, drawing at every inch of him. “Oh darlin', that's -”

Michael never got to hear what it was. With Jack's hips moving erratically against his own, he leaned forwards again and tightened every muscle he still remembered he had. The pirate groaned loudly again and arched his back off the bunk, fingers bruising Michael's hips.

Jack's face contorted with pleasure, his mouth fell open in a drawn-out growl of climax, and Michael moaned prettily at the feeling of the wet heat spreading inside him. Between pants and moans, sweat-slick bodies and heavy breathing, their movements eventually stilled, leaving Michael sated and collapsed over the sun-tanned chest of Jack Sparrow.

“See, now you've got me curious. Where do you learn these things, darlin'?” Jack muttered, voice drowsy. “Certainly not a Tortugan - _or_ any other - brothel.”

“How d'you know?” Michael wondered, adjusting himself until he could lie comfortably on his side, looking at Jack.

“Done it all, seen it all, love,” Jack said by way of explanation. Michael became vaguely interested in why the Caribbean prostitutes wouldn't bother with learning the basics, even; but he didn't bother to take it up with Jack.

“Um, dunno, really. Books. Boyfriends. Maybe a movie or two.”

“Talking codswallop again,” Jack commented.

“I'll explain it all tomorrow,” came the yawned response. “I'm tired.”

“We're sailing early, darlin',” he heard the pirate say. Jack tugged one of the covers haphazardly up around his waist. “Get off or stay on.”

Michael considered it briefly. It wasn't like he had any pressing appointments for at least another week. Or a way to get away from there. Besides, the rum and Jack Sparrow were cooperating very nicely to make him fall asleep, what with the former coursing through his system and the latter already snoring.

“Yo ho, a pirate's life for me.”


End file.
